What I Do, Tonight
by KatZenSPN
Summary: Dean Winchester hasn't seen his brother Sam in four years, and Sam hasn't left the hospital since the fire. Castiel's just trying to keep the city of Seattle safe from the weird trouble and let the cops handle the regular trouble. Lot of weird trouble is coming to the Emerald City. Co-written with MooseFeels. Find her on Tumblr or Ao3!
1. Chapter 1

Hi all!

This story is a collaboration between myself and the lovely MooseFeels (find her on Ao3 under that name!). It is a Hellblazer!AU, but mostly in the shape of the story and the feel of the world; you don't need any knowledge of the Hellblazer universe or series to understand what will take place here. We're modeling this story on that gritty, grimy, 90's British Invasion comic feel, and less so on the actual story of Hellblazer, although there will be elements present if you are familiar with that story that you might appreciate.

Thanks for reading, and we both hope that you enjoy the story!

* * *

It's quiet in the ward.

It's always quiet in the ward—usually, really.

Wake up at nine, breakfast is nine-thirty. Then there's the rotating schedule: group or solo or crafts or outside. Lunch. Afternoon meds. Group or solo or crafts or outside. Evening meds. Back to rooms. The schedules make it quiet, the schedules keep it quiet. They need the schedules in the ward. _Sam_ needs the schedules. Most of it, at least.

Sometimes, Sam misses the lack of _structure_. Sometimes, when Sam misses school and cars and food he's cooked and his brother and _Jess_, smart, kind, beautiful Jess_,_ he'll think of how loud it was outside of the hospital and he won't miss it so much anymore.

Structure makes things quiet.

He's been here a long time. Long enough that he has a few privileges. He's always had his own room, but now he also has a record player and some books and as many notebooks and pens as he can ask for. Old law textbooks, a few journalistic pieces on birth defects in frogs or the industrial food system. No fiction.

Sam doesn't like fiction and he sure didn't like the little Gideon Bible that he found in nightstand four years ago after checking himself in.

Other people in the hospital, they came and went.

Four years.

They also don't make him socialize much. They make him see the therapist, they make him go to group. They don't make him talk, though, and they don't make him tell the story any more.

The therapists have learned to just read the file. They don't ask anymore, after the fourth left to live in Hawaii, to teach middle school art.

They stopped sending the interns in, the residents, the ones who would walk into the room with earnest eyes and a deeply, if briefly held belief that they would _fix_ Sam.

_Fixing_ is no longer on the table. Sam is maintained. Sam...maintains.

It's four am when Sam wakes up.

The smallest pill takes care of the dreams. The orange pill takes care of the insomnia. The blue pill takes care of the voices. Not one of them works fast enough.

_I'm coming_, it says.

Sam takes a deep breath. He feels it follow his nerves, from his sinuses down his spine to the tiny branching paths at his hands and feet.

The sound of his deep inhalation rings loud in his ears like the inward rush of a tide.

Sam doesn't talk any more.

He talked during the bad time, but not anymore.

Sam exhales, and he feels the breath leave a warm blaze as it flows outward.

The blinds are drawn in the room where they have him. The paper, folding kind of blinds that leave the glass completely invisible. And they took the mirror out of the bathroom near him, too. He shows up in the reflections, actively. Sam barely remembers what he looks like anymore, between the lack of mirrors and the fact that they few times he used them since it happened it wasn't _him_ he was looking at in there.

_I am coming, Sam Winchester._

Sam grits his teeth _tightly _and draws his hands against his ribs to feel the steady inward, outward flex of his torso.

_I am coming,_the voice roars.

Sam shouts in his empty room.

Can't happen _again._

* * *

The alarm clock is too goddamn loud.

It's a necessary evil, really, otherwise he sleeps through it and stays asleep for thirty six hour periods, or until the nicotine shake gets so severe that he falls out of bed and wakes himself up. Something about the pill he's on, some endless, instant REM cycle or something. That's what the doctor says it is— the general practitioner and the shrink both. The priest, though, in the church on Bainbridge, and the psychic downtown where all the tourists go both know better. Both have confirmed Castiel's suspicion, with that soft, pitying look.

God, Castiel hates the customer-service ends of the job and the people who work it.

Still, Castiel can't remember the last time he didn't wake up fucking _gasping_.

He reaches over the clock and grabs a pack of smokes and a lighter and one-two-three clicks the flame up and inhales deeply to light the damn thing and he burns through his first cigarette of the day, last of the carton, before he's even put on a shirt.

His chest aches as he sits up in bed. His teeth ache too, but that's a different problem, that's the whiskey that's also worming through his blood as a headache and a fierce nausea.

He coughs heavily and phlegm comes up hard and terrible and fucking pungent. A smell he can taste. A cancer he can taste.

Castiel hates it.

Castiel hates everything, honestly, but mornings make the list pretty far up.

The phone rings.

_Fucking of course_, he thinks.

Castiel spits onto his floor and staggers across his one room apartment to the phone. He picks it up.

"Cas— Cas— Cas," Kevin stammers on the end of the line. "Problems. Bad— bad problems. Lighting up all over nei-neighbrohood. P-precinct. Gabe told me to call you. Bad. Very bad."

Castiel sighs. In spite of himself.

"How bad," he sighs.

"Black eyes," Kevin answers.

"_Fuck,"_ Castiel barks into the phone and hangs up.

He shrugs easily into his suit, runs his hands through his hair, and heads out.

Today is going to fucking _suck_.

* * *

Dean sits on the bend in front of the precinct desk and rolls his neck and shoulders. He inhales long a deep and feels his black leather belt settle lower on his hips, his blue starched shirt stretching over his pecs, his eyes dancing under their lids.

He wonders what Sam is doing.

He doesn't let him see him. He doesn't let him call. He doesn't write letters back and he's not allowed to have a computer. They tell him roughly what his schedule looks like but they don't tell him anything specific. _Is he happy? Is he well? How does he feel?_

Dean misses his brother like he misses a limb.

He rubs the crucifix in his pocket. It's attached to ten decades of beads but it's the silver, suffering Christ on the cross that he worries under his thumb, feeling the tiny raised chest, the round knob of the bowed and aching head.

He murmurs a Hail Mary under his breath.

"Winchester," the sergeant behind the desk barks, "your feet broken?"

Dean opens his eyes and looks at Harvelle, behind the desk and smiles reflexively. "Weird night," he answers. "Sam had a bad night."

As the only living relative, Dean's the one they call when there's an Incident. Capital _Eye _Incident.

Harvelle nods.

Ellen's an old friend. A family friend, and god knows Dean wouldn't have a spot on the force without her. Bunch of guys on the force know about Sam now, anyway. It's not really something Dean can _hide_. He doesn't have a girlfriend or a boyfriend, he doesn't have pets. His salary doesn't go to some big house in the nice suburbs or a coke habit or gambling or...or anything. Not nice clothes or a garage band or something. It's not like he hides it, anyway. It's not really something he _can_ hide.

Sam and Dean.

Dean stands up and cracks his neck.

Charlie comes through the doors, her own starched blue shirt pulling over her chest, her red ponytail flowing out of the other side of her black hat.

"Alright, princess," she says, grinning, "Let's hit the streets."

Dean drives. Charlie takes shotgun. And they patrol.

There's a coin of Saint Michael that Dean superglued to the dash a few years ago. Charlie's not religious, but as she put it, "We could use all the help we could get, eh Winchester?" Dean wouldn't call what _he_ is religious, at any rate.

Dean turns on their radio. Charlie hands him a cup of coffee.

"How's Gilda?" Dean asks after a sip.

Charlie flips through a notebook from yesterday, wiggles a knob on the radar gun, and replies, "She's good. The kindergarteners are driving her crazy— I keep telling her they'd pay her better at St. George's to teach high school but she loves the munchkins."

Dean shakes his head in response. "She's a weird lady," he says.

Charlie points the radar gun toward the street. "Can't be helped," she grunts, shrugging. "Hey, I heard about Sam. Everything okay?"

"He had a bad slip," he answers. "They're upping the dosage on one of his drugs and encouraging him to socialize more with the other people."

"Still no word?" she asks. The radar gun beeps.

"No contact," Dean says.

They don't say anything else for a few hours. Sit in the car and catch speeders, write tickets. They're there until about two that afternoon when a radio call comes in. Dean drives, Charlie takes receiver.

"Dispatch, this is 85," Charlie murmurs into the receiver.

And they drive downtown.

* * *

It's not that this job is ever a _good_ one.

It's not. It drains him and it empties him and it's never _good_.

But there are days when it's bearable. Days when the souls he saves get chalked up on the board, weighed against the souls he couldn't, and the balance feels acceptable.

But those days usually do not start with the words _black eyes_ coming from Kevin's mouth.

His hangover hasn't gotten the memo that it's not a good time, so the pulse in his forehead is pounding out a rhythm like a demented fucking high school band percussion section from _Hell_ and that metaphor got away from him somewhere along the way, so he rolls the window down and hopes that some cool air might help.

It doesn't, really. But it doesn't hurt, either, so he leaves it down.

Kevin tried calling back. Twice. It's possible that swearing and hanging up the phone didn't do anything for the kid's already-jangled nerves, but what does he expect when he drops a bomb like that?

But he didn't pick up because he knew it would be more stammering and more high-strung anxious _Cas Cas Cas_ and if he's got black eyes in his immediate future then he doesn't have time for Kevin's twitchiness. He's sure he'll get a call from Gabriel about that in the next couple of days. _He's in recovery, Cas, come on, don't be a dick_.

There are seven rapidly consecutive _beeps_ signalling text messages.

He doesn't touch the phone until he gets into the parking lot. No one's ever called him risk-averse, but he would be _pissed_ if he survived everything that got thrown at him just to get killed on the road because he was fucking texting.

Also, he hates the damn thing, though he considers it _another _necessary evil.

He picks up the phone once he's parked and unlocks it, thumbing the texting icon reluctantly. A big, urgent, red numeral fifteen sits atop the green box, like it's something that he ought to find important.

Hell, somebody needs to get in touch with him that bad, they can fucking summon him.

Kevin's texting style is as staccato as his spoken voice, and Castiel can hear the breathlessness in it. It's like something has been wrapped around the kid ever since the possession, and it's never let up on him. Like something is sitting on his chest, and Castiel hasn't been able to push it off, hard as he shoves.

_Cas pick up_

_Okay you're probably driving_

_Don't pick up_

_I'm gonna link you the reports that gabe sent me ok_

_Just click on the addresses and your phone browser wll open the pages_

_There's three reports so far don't know if SPD is on the scene but it's possible_

_Just don't get arrested ok cas you're the only one who knows how to fix the a/c_

Castiel is torn between irritation that Kevin thinks he doesn't know how to open a link on a fucking smart phone—he hates them, but he's not _stupid_—and reluctant amusement at Kevin's pitiful attempt at playing it cool with his last message.

There are not many people that Castiel tolerates in this world or any other. Kevin Tran is the extremely rare exception.

He doesn't say it much, but he figures it's understood. Wouldn't want the kid getting a big head or anything.

He parks the car, sending up a quick gratitude to anyone listening that there was a spot open in his zone, and he begins the trek to Gabriel's office.

Necessary evils.

* * *

The worst thing about Gabriel's office is the sun lamp.

Not usually. Usually, the worst thing about Gabriel's office is 's actually _saying something_, though, given that the walls are a particular shade of aqua and there's one of those pictures of a baby inside of a flower with a headband on or something. Gabriel inherited it from the last occupant and he hasn't taken it down. Castiel suspects it's just to fuck with him. There's also the complete lack of any parking in the area and the yoga studio down the street and the bubble tea place with the chairs hogging the sidewalk—

But _usually_ he's not woken up in the morning by a panicked Kevin and a call to action before he can even have his fucking _coffee_, so today, the sun lamp is the worst thing.

So he turns it off.

"Not like I need it, when your sunny disposition is in the building," Gabriel chirps as he darts into the room, dropping a file heavily on the table. The office's receptionist isn't in yet, just the two of them here.

Castiel grunts an acknowledgment to Gabriel as he makes his way to the _best_ part of Gabriel's office, which is the always-full pot of coffee.

"And no, I don't have any clients for the next half-hour. It's always so _respectful_, how you ask if I'm busy," he adds.

Gabriel could have a whole conversation with himself, if he wanted to. Hell, he could have a whole conversation with someone else without opening his mouth if the fancy struck him.

"Kevin told me you called. I came. You owe me more than coffee for that." Castiel grabs a mug that says _social workers do it in groups_ in garish green text.

"So sorry to bother you with, you know, your holy calling or whatever," he replies, rolling his eyes.

Gabriel reaches around and takes another mug, this time a white one that says _social worker by day, bigfoot hunter by night_ with a cartoon sasquatch lumbering across it. Castiel hands him the carafe when he's done with it.

One, two, three drags of the hot, bitter coffee, and then Castiel is minimally prepared to talk to his brother.

"Kevin mentioned black eyes," he murmurs around the taste of it. It's rare that he drinks coffee that hasn't been burnt by the percolator.

Gabriel sighs, running his hand over his face, and takes his coffee over to his desk. Castiel goes to the door and shuts it before taking a seat in the other chair in the cramped room.

He bites his lips for a moment before saying, "There's been some buzz from a couple of clients. A few reports, some that got passed on to the cops. Kevin should have those. But then Susan came in talking about it."

Castiel narrows his eyes. Susan is a name he's familiar with—one of Gabriel's younger clients, early thirties, and when she came in Gabriel was really torn between whether he should call Castiel with her rantings or whether he should call in a psychiatric consult. He was getting mixed feelings from her. He got her into therapy but kept listening, and eventually she was substantiated enough that he just started believing her. Turns out sometimes people are both schizophrenic _and _sensitive.

Gabriel hadn't gotten into social work hoping to be Castiel's informant, but somehow, people who said crazy shit were sometimes saying it because they'd _seen_ crazy shit.

"She said that she'd seen a guy she knew from the shelter talking to himself when she was down by the stadiums. Not his usual scene, she said, so she went up to see if he was all right. When she got there he was talking into a bowl and she said it smelled like blood. She started backing up, getting out of his way, but she managed to get a glimpse of his eyes. Pitch-black, whites and all."

"Get a glimpse, like—"

"Like he looked at her, yeah."

"And it let her go?"

Gabriel takes a long sip of coffee.

"She said she found a beat cop around and stuck with him until she could get a bus back up to her housing. She said she wasn't sure if he followed her or not."

"If you can get her admitted, it'd probably be safer," Castiel says, downing the rest of his coffee quickly and putting the mug back next to the coffee pot. "Any pretense."

"Wouldn't take much pretense, she meets all the diagnostic criteria for schizophrenia."

"Because she's schizophrenic, Gabriel."

"Hey, who'm I to judge?" Gabriel asks acerbically. "I can validate half the shit she says, who knows about the other half? Who the fuck knows if _anybody's_ schizophrenic anymore? The DSM doesn't ask whether or not you _actually_ saw a demon."

Castiel has already turned to walk out the door. But he pauses.

They're not close, him and Gabriel. Haven't been in a long time. He knows how long Gabe tried to deny his gift, and he can feel the resentment that Gabriel holds against him for dragging him back into this shitshow like a physical thing. But Gabriel is still his brother. And he can still spare some guilt for what's happened to him, alongside all the guilt he so liberally spreads around to everyone else he hasn't managed to save.

"Gabriel."

Gabriel waves a hand at him, and it's so transparent in its attempt at dismissiveness but it comes across as genuinely weary.

"Go be a big damn hero or whatever," he says. "I have paperwork to do because I'm a grown-up."

Castiel is no good at pushing Feelings Talk.

So he goes.

* * *

Charlie doesn't eat vegan, but Gilda does, and Gilda, god _bless_ her heart, packs a lunch for both Dean and Charlie every day. It's damn kind of her, especially given that they're making ends meet on cop and teacher's joint salary and that vegan shit ain't cheap. Charlie eats all of it (girl has a metabolism like a goddamn trash compactor) and Dean usually eats about half and then they'll grab something in the area to split afterwards. Usually with beef or cheese or both.

Today, she's packed a spinach salad with bean sprouts and her marinated tofu and sunflower seeds and a home-made mustard dressing. It's alright, but as soon as they're both done, she turns to him and says, "Pierogi or that place with the sopressata? I'll treat."

Dean snorts around a mouthful of gatorade. "Come on," he says. "Don't you feel like you're cheating or something?"

Charlie looks at him like he just farted egregiously. "No," she says. "Gilda grew up in that place in California— last time she had beef she had fucking braces and it was an animal she had raised since she was in pullups— no, Gilda doesn't ask questions she doesn't want the answers to, okay?"

Dean can't help but laugh. Gilda and Charlie are good people.

"No, okay, for this, we're doing pierogi, and you're paying," she says, turning the ignition and steering the car back out into the fray of traffic. The thing navigates like a boat— other people on the department have cars that are gas efficient little hondas and shit but he and Charlie have wound up with one of those boxy machines from the mid-seventies somehow, with giant headlights and a tape deck instead of a CD player or an mp3 hookup. It's damn comfy, but it's a bitch in traffic, and it's three thirty right now, with the school buses out and about, too. Dean doesn't mind too much, though. He likes cars. Grew up in cars.

It's quiet between them for a while before Charlie says, "So there's this woman at Gilda's yoga class—"

"Aw, Christ, Charlie, come on," he says. "Not you, too. I mean, coming from Ellen and Anna it doesn't surprise me but you _too_? I'm betrayed. _Hurt_."

"I tried telling her, dude, but Gilda worries about you, man. I mean, I worry about you, too, but Gilda thinks you need someone who can...I mean, everyone _knows_ you want kids—"

"Stop," Dean interrupts.

"There's nothing _wrong_ with wanting to procreate and have a million little yous running around but you're going to need to—"

"Stop," Dean repeats.

"Or maybe you want to adopt or something, I don't know—"

"_Charlie, please," _he says.

"Look okay, you're my _friend. _I'm fucking emotionally invested in you, sue me," she adds. "And Gilda's invested by extension and we just...we want you to be happy."

There's silence between them for a moment, before Dean says, "I know. I get it. Just...please. Alright?"

"We're here," she says.

The pierogi place is little bitty— a hole in the wall run by a family that's been in the space for something like thirty years without painting the walls or getting new chairs or new televisions. It smells like boiling water and steam and cabbage inside of the space. There's an orthodox cross set into the tile behind the counter, an image of Saint Nicholas of Brooklyn on the counter. The father and mother who originally ran the place are sequestered upstairs, but their kids run the place, their speech floating between English and Polish rapidly. Tiny old women come in, their hair wrapped up in scarves. Beflanneled hipsters come in. Cops and firemen come in. It's a good spot.

"Dean, Charlie," Chuck says from behind the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. "The usual? Two dozen and a couple of coffees?"

"Chuck, you beautiful bastard," Charlie replies, "did you know we were coming?"

Chuck smiles. It's a good look on him.

Dean actually met Chuck in a support group. Schizophrenia runs in his family, but just the regular kind. Not the kind that's _not_ schizophrenia and instead something...uglier. He took his brother's death hard, he stopped taking his meds and started drinking again. But he's doing better now. Still a twitchy kinda guy, though. Nervous.

"Call it a feeling," he says. He calls to the back, presumably to the teenaged cousin here from Lublin to work. Sweet kid, weird name— _Inias_. "They'll be out in a jiff. How's the beat looking?"

Dean shrugs. Charlie repeats the motion.

They don't use the _q word_.

Chuck nods. He doesn't use it either. He's known the two of them long enough to know the superstitions. And most people think Dean is just superstitious. Chalk it up to a weird childhood and a couple of bad run-ins with luck or the inexplicable or something. No one thinks it's _real_ like Dean _knows_ it is. But Chuck's a good guy.

He hands them a white paper sack a minute or so later, as well as two tall coffees. "How much you need again?" Dean asks.

Chuck shakes his head. "For you? No charge," he answers.

"Aw, Chuck, c'mon. Becky'll have a stroke if she finds out," Dean says, pulling out his wallet.

"Then she won't find _out_," Chuck says. "I know you don't eat right. Your money's no good here. Get back to the good work."

Charlie grins. "Chuck, you're an angel," she says, and they ease out of the door and back onto the street.

They sit on the hood of the car, setting up the food and coffee. They've got one ear on the scanner and one ear on the street, but mostly they're enjoying the fact that there hasn't been a crisis yet or anything.

Seattle.

Four o'clock and all is well.

Of course, as soon as Dean has the thought he realizes that it's all going to go to shit.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi all! I realized that I should probably provide some context to this story, some things that are available in the Ao3 tags but I failed to elucidate upon in the first chapter, so I'm putting this here and also up on the previous chapter.

This story is a collaboration between myself and the lovely MooseFeels (find her on Ao3 under that name!). It is a Hellblazer!AU, but mostly in the shape of the story and the feel of the world; you don't need any knowledge of the Hellblazer universe or series to understand what will take place here. We're modeling this story on that gritty, grimy, 90's British Invasion comic feel, and less so on the actual story of Hellblazer, although there will be elements present if you are familiar with that story that you might appreciate.

Thanks for reading, and we both hope that you enjoy the story!

* * *

It won't be in SoDo. Not anymore.

It's probably ditched the meatsuit altogether, once it got made. But there are always traces, always tracks, and besides, Castiel could really go for some pho, so he makes his way down south.

It's heading up on evening on a weekday so there's not a ton of people around. It's not summer, so there's no tourists, only pockets of people waiting at the bus stops and a few homeless guys waiting between shelter shifts. He winds his way down the streets, heading toward Little Saigon.

He goes a little further south than he needs to, though, to check out the PPH.

The fog is rolling in heavy today, and it seems to sit stubbornly right around the base of the building. Pacific Psychiatric Hospital, grounded and towering up the hill, surrounded by stiff-spined trees, imposing in its red-bricked glory, and oozing a sick sense of wrong.

Not always, but for a while, at least.

Castiel glares suspiciously up at the building, as though he could will it to give up its secrets through the power of his disapproval. It doesn't reveal anything.

Kevin noticed it first, actually. He'd gone up to the ID to hit the Goodwill and came back to Castiel's apartment shaking and shocky. Ten minutes of frankly out-of-character soothing from a very alarmed Castiel later, Kevin was able to finally tell him that there was _something wrong with that creepy-ass hospital_.

Problem was, you couldn't get into PPH on any kind of flimsy pretext, and there wasn't enough info to really warrant an investigation and potential trouble with the cops. Not when there was plenty of other shit in the Emerald City to keep him busy as fuck. So the PPH remained at the bottom of his list.

But it was still on his list.

Today the _wrong_ was trickling out slowly, pooling around Castiel's ankles like the fog pooled around the base of the hospital. It prodded at him, teasingly, as though to say _come and find me_.

"Fuck whatever you are," Castiel said through gritted teeth as he pushed aside the shivers that tried to wrack his body.

His research had given little to go on. It was a pretty normal hospital, one of many in the city, just kind of auspiciously and eerily perched on top of a hill. He couldn't find leylines nearby that would give it any kind of malicious aura, or any unusual history—suspicious deaths, infamous patients, nothing. Hell, there isn't even anything _underneath_ it. In _Seattle_. If anything, it's suspiciously _normal_ in its construction.

Castiel whispers a warding against evil under his breath and the tingling around his feet dissipates—no, it retracts, quickly, like it's been burned.

Castiel smiles, sharp and humorless.

He peers up at the hospital one more time.

He gives it the bird as he stalks off, because fuck him if the fucking PPH is going to get in between him and his pho.

* * *

It's almost eight o'clock before the shit hits the fan.

It's been dark for a while now. There's starting to be a bite in the air, and Dean knows it's only going to get dark earlier and earlier now, which is kind of a bummer when you're working second shift. By December, he'll have maybe two hours between getting on shift and sunset. He prefers the longer days of summer. People are nicer in the daylight. They like cops more. They're less shifty.

But police work has to be done in the fall just like it does in the summer.

Charlie doesn't seem to mind as much. It's not a conversation they've had, but she's not really much for the sun even during bright summer days. Could have something to do with her being pale as a damn vampire, but Dean doesn't like to make assumptions.

She's a few feet away, giving an older woman directions back toward the waterfront. The little old lady thanks her and pats her on the forearm. Charlie smiles brightly and waves as she leaves.

Dean rejoins her, propping one hand on his radio hooked onto his belt. "The kind of police work Gilda's happy with," he says.

Charlie shoves him with her shoulder. "She _worries_."

"She'd worry less if it were you giving old ladies directions all day."

"Not untrue," Charlie sighs. "Hell, I'd be okay with that. Want to head south?"

Dean shrugs.

There's a stillness hanging over the city as they drive, one that Dean doesn't associate with the _q_ word but rather with the impending absence of the _q_ word. A sense of _wait for it_. An intake of breath, slow and deliberate.

He glances south, towards the PPH.

Sam never liked for him to talk about getting weird feelings. And Dean doesn't mean it in a premonition sort of way—just that he believes that everyone can sense when something bad's going to go down. Nothing special. Just...man, what's that word…

"The pheromone thing that's not a pheromone thing where fish know that there's danger when one of the school gets hurt," Dean says abruptly, snapping his fingers by Charlie's face.

Charlie gives him massive side-eye.

"They talked about it on the radio a couple days ago."

"Schreckstoff," Charlie answers, easy now like she wasn't staring at him like he'd grown another head two seconds ago.

"Schreckstoff," Dean repeats.

"You got the willies, Winchester? You're not picking it up from me."

"Nah, it's not that. I don't know. Probably just the change in the weather."

He glances south again.

Charlie shifts in her seat and he doesn't look over.

"Sam needs his time," she says. "That kid is never gonna stop needing you, and one day he'll be ready again."

"Four years," Dean mutters.

"He's got real good doctors there. They're all doing their best, and so is Sam."

Dean's knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel.

Charlie gets quiet.

"I need…" Dean begins.

"Yeah," Charlie says.

"I need us to not, right now."

"Yeah."

Dean sighs heavily.

"Look, Charlie, I know that—"

"_Christ_, Dean!"

Charlie's arm flies in front of Dean and grabs the steering wheel, jerking it to the right. Dean's eyes swim with the speed of the turn, and it's all he can do not to grab the wheel back, overcorrect, flip the car. As it is, the car jumps the curb on its right-side tires, and Dean slams on the brakes.

They come to a stop with a lurch, and Dean gasps in breath. He stares at the tree that coalesces in his vision, solid and spindly and _inches_ from the front bumper.

"Oh, fuck," he breathes.

Charlie's already unbuckling, and she's out of the car before Dean's heart rate has slowed enough that he's convinced he's not about to have a cardiac episode. Once he can breathe, he throws his seatbelt off and follows her out. His legs are steadier than he'd expected, still less steady than he'd hoped.

Charlie's stopped in front of the car, and gestures for him to stop when he comes up behind her.

"Charlie, what the fuck—"

"Over there."

She points to the left, where there's a man twitching, twitching, before he goes still. Standing in the middle of the road, then walking to the opposite sidewalk. He stops just outside of the pool of light cast by the streetlight.

His head tilts to the side.

Dean _shudders_.

He puts his hand on his weapon and he takes a step forward before Charlie grabs him by the arm and steps in front of him.

"Behavioral crisis," Charlie murmurs. "We need to call for CIT backup."

Dean's fingers tighten around the grip of his pistol. The man still hasn't moved again, not since his head tilted. Behavioral crisis, _hell_. This is not something that the Crisis Intervention Team is gonna be able to manage.

"I don't think so," he says.

Charlie looks up at him sharply, her eyes narrowed.

"Dean. Come _on_. He's obviously either on something or in the middle of a mental health crisis. We have to call for CIT. You can't just engage this guy, he's gonna go apeshit."

"You gotta trust me, Charlie," Dean says, stepping out from around her grip. "I know what this is and the CIT can't handle it."

He goes one more step and his fingers unsnap the holster and Charlie walks in front of him, her arms crossed but her face pale.

"This is not worth your badge, or your life," she spits. "It's not worth you having to kill that man. Put your gun _and_ your dick away and get back in the car until we can get CIT out here."

Dean grits his teeth and checks the guy out of the corner of his eye. Stillness. A weird stillness, getting weirder with every moment it continues.

"I need you to listen to me, Charlie—"

"I need you to get in the _fucking_ car. He's disorderly at worst. Not. Worth it."

The worst part, the damndest part of the thing is that she's _right_. For right now. The guy's not doing anything, he's just standing there after he finished twitching, and it's just that Dean knows that he's nothing that fucking CIT can fix with some meds and an involuntary psych referral. It's just that Dean knows that if this guy gets into the hospital, it's going to mean dead nurses.

The coolness of his gun beneath his fingers is usually a reassurance to him in situations like this, situations that might escalate. If he has to, he can take care of himself. He can protect himself and Charlie can protect herself. But the man's head is moving now, turning towards him, and it's languid and sinuous, and he wonders if his gun will do a goddamned thing this time.

He doesn't refasten the holster snap. He doesn't take his hand off of his weapon. But he pushes past Charlie, who is hissing at him to think about his job and to _think about Sam, for fuck's sake_, but he ignores her.

"Hey, buddy!" he shouts, and the guy doesn't really react, not much. Not like some poor idiot who's on a bad trip would. Not like a guy in the middle of some mental breakdown would. He just tilts his head back somewhat, like he's peering down at Dean down his nose.

Dean slips his gun out just enough to have a good hold on the grip.

"SPD," he calls, his voice clear and as calm as he can manage. "Just want to talk. You need some help there, pal?"

The guy looks at him then, dead-on, eye-to-eye and it's the shadows, it's _got_ to be the shadows, but his eyes look completely black.

Dean clicks the safety off.

"Oh _yes_, officer," the guy says, and Dean freezes.

He interacts with a _lot_ of people who are not at their best on this beat. Lots of coke, lots of booze, lots of everything. Lots of brain chemistry that should have them on a totally different set of chemicals. He very, very rarely hears the kind of clarity and diction he hears now.

"I need _help_."

Dean's world narrows into a very fine focus. The guy is moving towards him now.

Dean draws his gun.

"Stay back," he shouts.

His finger is steady on the trigger but that's only years of practice keeping it that way. This guy, he's _wrong_, there's something _wrong_ about him in _that way_ and Dean wants salt and iron but all he has is his police-issue side arm. He hopes that holding it like this, like he might use it, because he _might use it_, will be enough that he won't have to.

The guy keeps coming.

"You said you'd _help_ me, officer," the guy simpers. "Is that the kind of hospitality the SPD offers? Come on. I need _help_."

Charlie's beside him, all of a sudden, her weapon drawn, too.

"We need you to keep your distance, sir," she calls. Her voice is steady and even and everything that Dean isn't feeling right now, and he breathes a little easier for her solidity. "Show us your hands."

The guy does.

Then one flicks towards them, and Charlie is launched back against the car, landing with a crash and a cry of pain.

She is _launched_. She _flies_ against it. In his sharp glance to her Dean sees crimson on the pavement and he knows she's bleeding, knows she's hurt, and there's nothing logical or explicable about what just happened but Charlie is on the ground and he is the only thing between this guy and either a second swipe at Charlie or the general public.

"Charlie!" Dean shouts, then turns back to the guy—the _assailant_, now. "Stop right there! Get on the fucking ground!"

"I was complying, officer," the assailant says. "She asked for my hands."

He's under a streetlight now. And his eyes are still black. And Charlie is laying crumpled against the car, hugging her leg to her in a way that does not spell backup.

"I said get on the _fucking ground_! I _will_ shoot you!"

The assailant fucking _laughs_.

Dean's world is now his target, his weapon, and his trigger finger.

He fires three shots, precisely aimed, clustered right over the assailant's heart.

When the world expands again, the assailant is standing under the streetlight, examining his ruined clothes like one might after spilling something at a restaurant.

He won't admit until later how much it scares him. How cold his blood runs, how he feels the edges of his vision go dark like it's him bleeding out on the old brick street instead of this—whatever he is.

He won't question until later why he doesn't call for backup, why instead when the assailant turns around and starts to dart through the buildings, he barrels after him.

He does question, close to immediately, how in the _fuck_ he didn't notice the civilian just _standing_ there.

* * *

Castiel's in a weird part of town. It's all a weird part of town: hell, it's Seattle. Someone told him once they built the current city on top of the old city— just constructed the streets and the buildings right on top of what used to be there. Place like that is gonna be weird. Not in that cute, affected _Keep Portland Weird_ kind of weird; actual _weird_. Dangerous weird. Kind of place with energy that will sustain it when the college kids go and the computers leave and the microbreweries pack up and go too. Kind of energy that kept it here after the war. Kind of energy that will keep this city here until Earth shuts the door; packs up and leaves.

It didn't seem this weird when he lived out on the island with Mother and Father and his brothers. It all seemed so...so normal. Sometimes he wonders what would have happened if he'd just shut the fuck up, if he hadn't been bucking for the fight or for blood.

Who would he _be_? Some accountant with a wife and a kid? Who would _Gabriel_ be?

Who would _Michael_ have been?

He rounds a corner, it's there.

That feeling that's been in his teeth like someone's been tugging at his molars with a cord fifty feet away, that hangnail sensation, that— _fuck_, it's like feeling a photic sneeze threaten in his sinuses. That feeling explodes over him, and he knows he's on the right track. On the right street, at the very least.

And then he sees the guy. He sees the way reality crackles around the guy, like small lightning. He sees the look in his eye, the hold of his body.

Anyone can see a possession from the eyes, but Castiel knows it from the shape of the shoulders. It's like looking at a big cat, coiled tensely before leaping toward prey.

"What's your name?" he murmurs. It doesn't react. Can't hear him from there. Might not even know he's looking yet. He steps forward, and then he hears an incredible noise.

He walks a little more forward.

"Give me your name," he says.

A guy comes around a corner— a cop in uniform.

Castiel hangs back.

Cop approaches— moves forward with his gun in hand. Castiel's can't see his face from this distance or this angle, but his body expression is taut in the way that only a young guy's body can be taut. Proud. Thinks he's a damn sight more powerful than he actually is.

Castiel can hear the vibration of his voice but he can't make out what he's saying. He can hear the tone, the shape of it. Stern and sharp but _desperate. _Trying to get him to back off. He's angry, but not at the guy here. No, this is different. And this is dangerous.

Castiel hangs back.

Woman comes around the corner, too. Red hair, inches shorter than her partner and the demon. Her gun is drawn, too.

Castiel doesn't really hear the voice, so much. He hears the way it wounds the air around it and tries to tear into the people nearby. The voice of the thing is an invitation for more of its ilk. Makes Castiel want to take a hot shower.

And then it charges them.

It's sudden. It's brief, and then the woman is on the ground and cop is shouting and the demon keeps at it— keeps needling at him.

Three shots, _pop pop pop_, and Castiel doesn't have to be close to guess the look of horror that's definitely coming over the young cop's face as the demon laughs it off.

And then the demon is running and the cop looks at the partner and then the cop is running and _fuck_.

Castiel darts forward, toward the guy, and he _tackles_ him, pressing him into the wall, actually getting a look at him for the first time. He grabs the jackass's shirt in big handfuls, hearing the way the seams rip at the shoulders.

"What the _fuck_ is your problem?" he shouts at him, thrusting him up against a wall. "Do you think this is a _game_?"

Jackass looks at him with a heavily furrowed brow, his shoulders bunching around his head as Castiel presses him against the wall. He looks down the alley where the demon went, and tries to shrug out of Castiel's grip. "Get the _fuck_ off me," he growls.

"Get the fuck out of here," Castiel retorts.

Jackass stares at him, wide-eyed, the adrenaline all but tangible in the pulse near Castiel's hands, taken aback by his lack of obedience. "I'm _police_," he starts.

Castiel slams him against the wall again. "Do you think he gives a granular _fuck_ if you're a cop?"

"He's breaking the law!" Jackass shouts at him.

"He's outside your jurisdiction, then!" Castiel replies. "Go home! Fuck off! This isn't some sort of fucking—" He lets go of him. He glares at him.

"It's assault on an officer, he hurt my _partner_—"

Castiel gestures sharply: _my fucking point. _"Right, so fuck off. She needs help— missed her fucking artery but _barely_."

Jackass looks at him, and Castiel finally sees the fire in him that probably makes him an alright cop. He sees him gather his bluster, getting ready to tear Cas a new one, when Castiel _really_ screws with him and walks away.

He learned this as a teenager. Nothing takes the wind out of these guys' sails like just _walking away_ from them. And if the guy has an authoritarian bent (what pig _doesn't_), this'll probably fuck him up nice. It's not enough that this jackass thinks he has authority here, it's that he thinks he has more authority than _Castiel_. Castiel is _Mister Authority_ when it comes to this shit. Hard pressed to find more authoritative fucks in this place than him.

He's just rounded the corner when he hears the cop begin to sputter, and Castiel smirks. He ducks his hand into his coat and fishes out a cigarette. Slips it into his mouth and lights it quickly, sucks it right down. He'll need to be done with it before he goes into the hotel, and god knows when this shit'll all be done and he can afford to dodge out and grab another.

Let the cops come and clean up once it just looks like a drug overdose, when it's just lives and not fucking _souls_.

He jogs toward where the demon went— a thing like that is playing. Wants to get caught; wants to get found. It's not interested in getting lost; that's not the way these things _work_. It wants to crow. Wants to show off, prove he's a big man.

Castiel barely has to jog a mile before he finds the thing, poised under a streetlight. It looks _gleeful_.

"Little angel, far from home," it intones. It speaks the rough, rocky tones of Enochian. The sound brings goosebumps across Castiel's arms. It says something he doesn't quite catch— he only really knows the insults and the words for banishments. He hears the shape of the word for _little_ though. And _pitiful_.

"_Give me your name_," he says. The streetlight pops.

It snickers again.

Castiel begins to _pray_.

There is a terror of sound. Suddenly the street sound empty and dark; like a cave in the very bowels of nowhere. Of no place. It does not stop and it does not change. The sound is. The sound is terrible.

Castiel feels the enochian rumble of banishment fall from his lips, unbidden, unrequested. Natural. Easy. As easy as this thing is for him, written down deep into his blood at this point.

The figure before him collapses. The lights around him flicker back on.

He pulls a stick of chalk out of his pocket and draws a circle around the light. At the top and bottom of it, he draws two little lines, attaching it to the earth. It won't contain the guy when he wakes up, but it'll stop the evicted tenant from coming back in while Castiel makes a phone call.

He walks two blocks over, to a payphone, and calls 911. An ambulance will show up in a few and find the guy, who by all accounts just _blacked out_. And maybe the cops will find him. Maybe they won't.

Castiel hopes they don't. Guy's had a shit day as it is.

The uneasy feeling ebbs a little bit, but it doesn't go away.

He stands there, in the city, in the dark, until he hears the ambulance, and then the voices of people stumbling away from a restaurant.

His stomach growls.

"Pho," he says, remembering.

Like on cue, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

* * *

See, the problem is that his fucking bosses want to know _who was it?_

Dean sits in the waiting room of the ER with his CO. Gilda's in the room with Charlie. He's not family, so they didn't let him in.

Gilda had rushed into the ER, and Dean had flinched when he saw her. He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't Gilda coming up to him and dropping down to a crouch in front of him, one hand on his knee and the other on his face.

"She's going to be okay," Gilda said firmly, like she could make it so just by saying it. Gilda's like that. Unshakeable. She's eerie with it. "Are _you_ okay?"

Dean hadn't trusted himself to speak, not in the face of the unexpected gentleness, so he just nodded. Gilda smiled wearily, pressed some kind of sweet pastry he'd probably make fun of under other circumstances into the palm of his hand, and swept away with a nurse to where Charlie was.

That just left him and Lt. Benjamin Lafitte—Benny when they were off the clock. And Benny is extremely fucking patient.

"I don't fucking know," Dean mutters. The clock on the wall is driving him insane. "I don't, Boss. Thought it was just—Charlie, she thought it was some skell, you know? Behavioral crisis."

"You disagreed," Benny says.

"A feeling," Dean replies. "Just—an instinct."

Benny waits.

Benny's a big guy— broad not just through the shoulders but through the whole body of him. His arms are crossed over his chest. His gaze is level.

Dean sighs heavily, scrubbing his face with his hands. "Look, Boss, I gave the best description I could. It wasn't somebody we knew. I'd never seen him around before."

"You said Bradbury thought the suspect was in the middle of a behavioral crisis," Benny says, and Dean feels his stomach clench. "She didn't recommend calling CIT?"

"She did," Dean admits. "I didn't think it was a behavioral crisis, sir. I had a bad feeling."

"So you engaged."

"I called him, said I was SPD, asked if he needed help. He approached, and wouldn't stop approaching when I told him to. I drew my weapon. Boss, I've already _told_ you all of this."

"You not calling CIT might have ended up with Bradbury in that bed," Benny says—no. Lt. Lafitte says. His eyes are hard and his jaw is set. "And you haven't explained to me how this perp—this asshole that Bradbury thought was some junkie—managed to get past you to throw her across the street and against your fucking squad car."

"He was...he was strong, sir. I don't know what to tell you."

"And you called for backup and attended to your partner."

Dean swallows.

"Yes, sir."

"Then when did he grab you?"

Dean contains his flinch.

"Sir?"

Lt. Lafitte grabs his uniform shirt and sticks his fingers into the tear in his right shoulder seam. "The perp must've gotten his hands on you. Or did you tear your own shirt? Wailing and gnashing your teeth wasn't good enough?"

Dean doesn't pull away. That hadn't been part of his report. But with Lafitte breathing down his neck like this, he doesn't have a lot of choice.

"A civilian," Dean says. "Grabbed me. I was going after the suspect and this guy tackles me, grabs me, says that it's out of my jurisdiction."

"Out of your—who the fuck was he?" Lafitte demands, releasing him.

Dean shakes his head.

"I don't know. He held me there and then he walked away. I would've gone after him—but Charlie, she was bleeding. I knew it was bad. I couldn't leave her."

"You're telling me you let the suspect _and_ the guy who interfered with your pursuit of the suspect, you let them both go, easy as that."

Dean sets his jaw. "I had Charlie to think about, sir."

Lafitte watches him through narrow eyes.

"You're not telling me everything, Winchester. You ought to reconsider that, or I'll have you on desk duty for the rest of your fucking life. You discharged your weapon tonight and I don't have shit to show for that, not even blood. When Bradbury wakes up, you better hope she substantiates your story."

Dean nods. He doesn't have any fight in him, nothing to come at his CO with, because he fucked up. He engaged with that perp when Charlie told him not to, and now she's in a fucking hospital bed because of it.

"Yes, sir," he says, quiet.

Lafitte blows out an aggravated breath, and he stands up.

"Sir?" Dean says.

Lafitte glares.

"They haven't found him yet?"

"What, your mystery superpowered unsub? No, Winchester, they haven't found him."

Dean nods. "Do you need me down at the station?"

"Like hell." Lafitte's eyes soften a little, and he shakes his head. "Go the fuck to sleep, Winchester. There's plenty of time tomorrow for me to shake this shit out of you."

Benny's a transplant to the Northwest like Dean is; he's from a parish in the middle of nowhere, Louisiana. Bayou kinda guy. His accent isn't as apparent as it was when Dean first met him, but it's still there sometimes, especially when he's angry or frustrated. He's a good guy. Brews beer in his basement and listens to loud zydeco. Takes care of his officers as much as he can, as long as they haven't fucked up too bad.

Dean hopes he hasn't fucked up too bad.

An hour later, the nurse comes out and says Charlie can see him. She's stabilized, she's going to be okay. Her leg's not even broken, just banged up real good, and there's a nasty gash close to but not across her femoral artery.

Just like the guy said. Dean ignores a little tremor that goes down his spine at that. He'd just gotten a better look at Charlie than Dean had, _somehow_. That's _all_. This is not the freaky part of this happening; this isn't the part that has his rosary wrapped so tight around his fist that the beads are biting into his knuckles, leaving little red indentations.

Gilda squeezes his shoulder and he smiles at her, smiles at Charlie, says something that's flippant but not quite flippant enough to fool either of them. It's okay. Once he sees Charlie's eyes open and rolling at him, once he hears her voice tell him to stop being an idiot and that it wasn't his fault, he can go.

He can leave, and find the soon to be _very sorry_ asshole who hurt his partner. And, if he's lucky, the asshole who'd let him get away in the first place.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry for the break in posting! We are back at it!

* * *

Kevin looks at him over the top of the table and says, "You seriously don't see any problem with this?"

Castiel looks up at him. Raises an eyebrow. He takes the thick, red chopsticks in one hand and the spoon in another, pokes around in the soup. "Kevin, I like Vietnamese food," he says. "Pho, specifically. I know that you and your family are not connected to this restaurant. We're not here for your comfort. Calm down."

Kevin Tran doesn't look impressed, but it's better than Kevin looking panicked. "So what was it?" He asks.

Castiel slurps a mouthful of noodles and broth. "Black eyes," he says. "Demon. Gabriel's lead was right- you two did good letting me know." He fishes around for a piece of tendon and he chews on it, contemplatively.

"Is the guy okay?" Kevin asks, his brown eyes going wide. Concerned.

Castiel nods. "Ambulance came and took him to a hospital. He'll wake up in six or seven hours and Anna will slip him Gabriel's card. Same as it ever was, Kevin." He looks down at the plate of garnishes and add ons for a moment, and then dumps a handful of cilantro and chilis in. Lime quarter gets squirted over the top. "You didn't tell the police, did you?"  
Kevin looks at him like he just grew a second head.

"Two cops," Castiel says, messily. "One got fucked up. Other wanted to rumble with the demon."

"I thought you said everyone was alright!" Kevin hisses from across the table. He's not stuttering, which is good. Still not panicked or anxious, just irate.

"She's going to be fine," Castiel says. "She got to a hospital; the fucker didn't get any arteries. Her partner seemed concerned once he put the testosterone away, which means he probably applied pressure. She'll probably get a nice scar out of it; pick up young guns at bars with it."

Kevin looks neither amused nor comforted, just kind upset. "Cas," he says, "what if-"

"Nothing did, though," Castiel says, his mouth full of top round. "Dwell on those what-ifs and you'll need to graduate to someone more competent than Gabriel."

Kevin rolls his eyes. "Next time, we're meeting at the pub down the block," he murmurs darkly.

"I'm not Irish, you racist fuck," Castiel laughs, and Kevin flips him off.

Kid will be fine.

The waitress brings a plate of spring rolls, wrapped in rice paper. Castiel smiles at her, and she smiles back. He's damn near regular here. Not enough that they know his name, but enough that they know he always pays in cash and he wants an order of spring rolls midway through his soup, if for no other reason than Kevin inevitably steals two of them, and that kid needs to eat more than he does. God knows, Linda's trying.

Sure enough, Kevin steals a spring roll and takes a bite, the bean sprouts crunching under his teeth. Castiel wishes he could get him to eat some of the beef- since it all happened, kid's been put off meat in a big way.

"Don't you have school tomorrow?" Castiel asks.

The blood drains from Kevin's face. "Shit," he hisses. "I need to get home. I've got calculus to do."

Castiel fishes his wallet out of his pocket and lays a twenty down on the table. His check is only going to be thirteen dollars or so, but he likes to tip. It makes him feel good.

A twitch ghosts over Kevin's face, and he fishes his phone out of pocket.

"You got bus fare?" Castiel ask, and Kevin nods vigorously. He takes another spring roll. Castiel grabs the last two, and they walk out of the restaurant.

* * *

Dean's just out. Downtown, in the dark, near where it happened but maybe eight to ten blocks away. There are a couple of alright bars in the area, and there's nothing Dean wants as much as a drink. Cheap whiskey, preferably, and then maybe a stranger whose name he won't remember and whose face he'll barely recall. He's even considering tucking his badge away, invisible, so he can cheat at pool .

That's when he sees them.

It's that asshole. He's in a little hole-in-the-wall pho joint with a kid, and he looks a little relaxed, but it's definitely the same guy. Same dark, messy hair and studied, intense features. Even relaxed, he holds himself in the same way- same curve to his shoulders, straightness to his spine. He's wearing the same clothes.

Dean stands in front of the restaurant and watches the guy as he says his quick good-byes to the kid, who is pretty enthralled with his phone and seems to mutter something without looking up. The guy looks about as amused as Dean would be, and he ducks back behind the restaurant.

Dean curses and tries to follow, but the asshole slips out of his sight. Of fucking course he'd lose him-of course he'd melt into the darkness like some kind of goddamned poor man's Houdini.

But the kid sticks around.

Calling an Uber or something, probably. He looks about seventeen, stick-skinny with a messy mop of dark hair. Full of twitchy, anxious little movements, checking over his shoulder like he knows he's being watched, or like he's worried he might be. And yeah, not a bad idea at this time of night, even if Seattle's a pretty safe city on the whole. And after all, the kid is being watched. But there's something timid in it, something once-bitten-twice-shy. Something that makes Dean a little sad.

His fingers race over his phone. A shiver wracks his frame. It's getting chilly but it's not that cold. Still, the kid's wearing skinny jeans and a hoodie. It's not like he's got much insulation.

Kind of reminds Dean of Sam in high school.

That's a thought that he shoves aside real quick, and he shakes off the ensuing pang of loneliness as he walks up to the kid. His badge is nice and visible, and he's wearing an SPD jacket. He couldn't be more conspicuously a cop if he was wearing his uniform. Which he might have still been wearing, if the kid's asshole friend hadn't torn it.

He pastes on a smile he knows for a fact is convincing, and his hands are open and carefully displayed when he walks up. No need to escalate a situation needlessly. Benny will have his ass gorilla-glued to a desk for eternity if he fucks up again, whether or not there was a body (or hell, even a complainant) connected to his last screw-up. So with this kid, he is going to be the definition of solicitous.

Which is why he's a little surprised as the kid's expression becomes one of dawning horror when he calls out, "Hey, pal, you got a minute?"

The phone disappears into the kid's pocket, and he sticks his hands in, too, then draws them out quickly. Then he shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets before pulling them out of those, too.

The whole thing is mildly comical, but Dean puts his hands up. "Woah, didn't mean to startle you. No trouble, man. Just wondering if you could give me a hand."

The kid peers at his badge, and looks really pale.

"You p-police?" he asks.

Dean nods. "Yeah. Name's Winchester. You got a sec?"

There's a moment where the kid obviously considers lying, but while his lips move for a while, they don't form around anything useful and eventually he shrugs and nods.

He looks so crestfallen that Dean just wants to pat him on the head. Instead, he grins and peers into the little Vietnamese place they're standing outside of.

"I guess you just ate, but can I buy you a cup of coffee or something?"

"I thought this would j-just take a s-second," the kid stutters, his shoulders bunching.

"Yeah," Dean says, easy, shrugging. "But you know, a second of your time and free coffee for your trouble? Sounds like a better deal to me."

"C-coffee m-makes me anxious," the kid mutters.

Dean doesn't snort.

It's close.

"Then some chamomile tea," Dean says. "Let me do you a favor, man, it's cold out. You looking for a ride? Or need bus fare?"

"What the hell," the kid mumbles, barely loud enough for Dean to hear, and he shoots a pained glance over Dean's shoulder. Dean looks, too. Nothing there.

Dean waits.

The kid gives him a despairing look and says "Y-yeah, okay, fine. T-tea. I don't need a r-ride."

Dean grins and gestures expansively. "Hey, no problem. There's a place I know a few blocks from here. Let's head out."

The kid follows dejectedly behind him as he takes the lead.

"What's your name?" Dean asks.

It takes a while-the K proves difficult-but Dean is patient and the kid eventually says "Kevin."

"Kevin," Dean echoes. "Nice to meet you."

Kevin does not return the sentiment.

* * *

The coffee house is really mislabeled as such. It's more of a coffee closet, in fairness. A handful of seats around a big, clunky espresso machine, a few more on what passes for a patio but is really just the parking lot fenced in by some rope. Klezmer music blasts out of the tiny window where orders are given and delivered, and the woman working the register and machines has a way of glaring at everything that puts Dean on edge. But their coffee is strong and hot, there's an evil eye hanging over the window, and they have a couple of teas that Sammy-

Well. Their tea is okay. So Dean hears, anyway. He doesn't know much about tea.

Kevin is huddled around his steaming mug of actual chamomile tea (Dean had been joking), peering up at Dean like he thinks he's going to get eaten.

"Look," Dean says, "I just need your help with one thing. Easy. It's about the guy you were with at that restaurant."

Kevin freezes. Dean notes that with some interest, but plows on.

"I think he might've witnessed a crime." Dean keeps his voice real casual. "Might be able to help us ID a suspect. If he did, he could really help the investigation."

Kevin is already shaking his head by the time Dean finishes talking.

"I d-don't-I don't-don't know him, not really, w-we were there with another friend. Mu-mutual friend. He-I don't know him."

Dean doesn't say anything, just takes a swig of his coffee and stares the kid down.

Kevin swallows hard, then drops his eyes. But he doesn't talk.

"Your friend-sorry, your mutual friend isn't in trouble, Kevin. I'm looking for his help. I'm pretty sure I saw him, I just need you to help me get in touch with him. You're not pointing the finger at him, nothing like that. I just need him to help me find a bad guy, all right?"

Kevin snorts, and Dean grants him that. Bad guy was perhaps laying it on thick. But it got a reaction out of him, so maybe not a total loss.

Kevin twists his napkin in his fingers. There's a lot of force behind that motion.

"I w-wish I could help you," he says. His voice is low and worried. Hell, worry oozes out of every word and action and gesture of this kid. Not that kind of worry that's unwarranted, though. Experienced worry.

Dean sits back in his seat, holds the paper coffee cup between his hands.

"I do," Kevin says.

Dean takes another sip of coffee, while Kevin squirms. After a while, Dean sighs.

"This guy I'm looking for. Not your buddy-the guy he can help me find. He hurt my partner, Kevin. Hurt her real bad. She's in the hospital. Her leg's all fucked up. This guy assaulted a police officer. And my partner, she's a good cop. The kind you don't read about, you know? Helps old ladies across the street. He tried to kill her. You help me find your friend, your friend helps me find the perp, boom. Justice is served. Think you can do that for me, Kevin?"

Kevin sinks further into his seat.

Dean leans forward. "Kevin. Can you help me find the man who tried to kill my partner?"

Kevin takes in a breath, and Dean does the same.

And then the kid's jaw sets.

"Am I under arrest, officer?" Kevin asks, his voice barely audible, but firm and careful and absolute. His eyes are fixed firmly on the cooling mug of tea in front of him.

Dean stares at him for a long time.

"No," he bites out. "You're not under fucking arrest."

Kevin abandons his tea and flees, leaving Dean sitting on the shitty little fake patio, wondering what in every possible fuck just happened.

* * *

Sam sits in his room and looks at the blank white walls and he feels strange.

Sam feeling "strange" isn't anything new or unusual, really. It's a different kind of strange, though. He feels his guts clenching, he feels tightly wound and unsteady. He stands up, and goes before the door of his room. He's not sure why he's standing there, what he's doing there.

It opens suddenly, and he jumps.

"C'mon, Sammy, you're gonna be late for school," Dean says.

Dean is his older brother; dirty blonde hair and green eyes and an open, teasing face. Never taking anything seriously except he's taking everything seriously. Deadly seriously. Painfully seriously.

Sam looks behind him.

White walls, cot bed. Empty bookshelf, screwed to the wall. Blinds drawn on high windows.

He looks in front of him. Dean, about twenty, stands in the doorway. The institution hallway stretches forward.

Sam looks at his brother.

"Sammy?" Dean asks.

Sam wakes up in his bed, sheets sticking to his body with sweat.

He's in his real room, not in that white one that's arranged all wrong. And he's late for school.

Dean opens his door and says, "Sammy! C'mon, get dressed!"

Sam frowns. "It's Sam," he says.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I'll give you a ride, you've already missed the bus."

Sam rolls out of bed and puts on his clothes and runs his hands through his hair and grabs a bagel from on top of the fridge and climbs into Dean's car.

Dean loves his car. It was Dad's once, when Dad was still alive. Dean repaired it himself, though, and she runs better than Sam ever remembers her running under Dad's stewardship. A song comes on the radio and Dean turns it up- something long and hard to hear. He doesn't know the name of it, but he's never been interested in the music that Dean likes. Dean learned music from Dad, and thinking about Dad, it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Dean's driving, the song playing. Sam takes a bite of the bagel and he looks over at his brother.

His brother's eyes turn black, and he smiles.

Sam wakes up again, this time in the institution again.

* * *

"Cas," he says, "Cas- Cas-Cassie-Cas- Cas, it's not that I don't treasure these talks but I have to go, I have work, you irritable fuck." He pauses, Castiel berating him further on the other end of the line. "Okay. Okay. I'll-I'll-" He hangs up. Castiel's invested in yelling at him more on the other line, but he really is running late. The agency has him set up with a new hospital and he's meeting up with a couple of new patients today and he can't be far off schedule. Schedules make these places, run them from dusk until dawn and if he's off schedule he's fucking up everything for everyone and he-

He dashes through the door, out of breath. Shows his ID to the security desk and walks quickly to the little multi-use office they have him in.

The patient is already in there.

Gabriel's already had a chance to look at the file for the guy. Paranoid schizophrenia with religious delusions. It's what Gabriel's good at, even without all the freaky rigamarole, and hey, everyone's got talents. Been here for a few years now but generally doesn't participate in group or solo therapy. Barely leaves his room, and getting him to talk is a miracle in and of itself.

On the couch, in the faded blue clothes of the hospital, he looks tired. His hair is overlong, like it hasn't even been trimmed in years. Four of them, if the file is right. His head is crooked downward. No eye contact.

"Hi," Gabriel says. "Sorry. Late. Never been on time for anything a day in my life. It's one of my special talents."

The guy doesn't say anything. The guy doesn't move.

The nurse who's been waiting with him nods to Gabriel, and then slips out of the room, leaving him alone with his patient.

Yeah, all right.

"I'm Gabriel," he says, settling into the seat across from the patient. "Just Gabriel. Some of the other guys, the like the titles and shit but I'm uh...I'm just Gabriel. And you're Sammy, right?"

"Sam," the guy answers. His voice is hoarse. His eyes don't quite make it up to Gabriel's face, but there's a shift in them-a break in that flat affect.

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, jotting that down.

"Just Sam and Just Gabriel, then," he says. "What's up, Sam?"

Sam's eyes shutter again, and his shoulders relax. He draws inward, and Gabriel can see the walls come up. It's nothing that surprises him. Four years, barely a word, he knows he's not going to make any kind of radical breakthrough today. He's here to observe. To poke and prod, maybe, and see what reactions he can get.

This guy, this Sam, he's a career-killer. Gabriel has seen the file. He's seen the number of therapists who gave up, who left, left the field after working with Sam. Which doesn't mesh, it doesn't, with this quiet, withdrawn kid (and does Gabriel mean kid- he just turned 26 in May). Because Gabriel gets frustration, sure. But not being able to crack a patient-even a fascinating one like Sam-that doesn't make you retire to Hawaii to teach middle schoolers. So there's something beneath this veneer, despite the fact that all of his caregivers say that he's a model patient. He's not violent (anymore), he's polite (in the rare moments where he talks), he's compliant (for the most part). He doesn't request anything other than the occasional textbook or addition to his room- opaque blinds and mirrors removed. Kid wants to be there. Wants to take his meds, wants to be allowed to stay.

What he doesn't seem to want, though, is to get better. He's stubbornly silent in talk therapy, and unless he's drug-seeking, which would be odd given that the kid isn't being given the fun stuff, Gabriel can't figure why he'd prefer to be drugged to the gills rather than seeing if maybe talking through his problems could help.

Except that his current program is really best maintained in an inpatient setting. Sam's never been cleared to go home.

Which maybe says more about home than it does about the quality room service at PPH.

"They still serve that butterscotch pudding here?" he asks.

Sam looks up at him, raises an eyebrow.

"The really dark kind? You can't really call that color brown and it's not really yellow either," he says. "When I was here, they served it maybe once or twice a week. I don't really miss the food here or anything, but I tell you what, that pudding's good shit."

Sam looks back down.

He's curious, Gabriel can tell. It's a good anecdote for places like this, even if it's not always true in the strictest sense. Sure, he spent a few weeks here but not at every institution in King county. But nothing makes them want to know more about you than thinking that you were one of them.

And it really was excellent pudding.

Sam shakes his head. "Haven't seen it," he answers.

Gabriel shakes his own head. "Damn," he murmurs. "I was hoping I could swing by the kitchen and see if I could sweet talk a cook after this."

Sam doesn't say anything to that. He doesn't look up. He doesn't really move. He just sits there, leaning so that his elbows rest on his knees and his lower body points downward. Hidden. And the thing is, he's a big guy. Six four and broad through the shoulders. He's not bulky, though, not like his frame is shaped to be. He's lean in an uncanny way. Makes him look fragile. And with the way he holds himself, it looks intentional. The whole thing screams no__t a threat not a threat not a threat.__

Kid stays quiet for fifteen minutes before saying, "I didn't think they'd let former patients work here."

__Baited__.

"They're all about the people coming back, trying to help," he answers. "Granted, I'm unorthodox, but my own therapist was very encouraging."

"Therapist seeks therapist," Sam murmurs.

Gabriel huffs a short laugh. "It's less uncommon than you think it might be. And I don't talk about the job during my sessions." He pauses, a long moment. "Even therapists need someone to talk to sometimes."

Sam looks at him.

God, he looks weary.

"Try hard," he says, his voice flat-toned.

Gabriel shrugs. "Way I see it, I get paid for being here whether you talk to me or not. Might be more interesting for the two of us if you do talk to me."

The kid doesn't say anything for the rest of the hour- the remaining forty minutes of it. But it finishes and Gabriel says, "I'll see you, same time, same place in a week, kiddo."

A nurse comes in and takes Sam by the arm, and the kid unfolds meekly and walks out of the room, leaving Gabriel sitting in the armchair under the lamp, looking at the door.

He sighs heavily and runs his hand over his face. He grabs his travel mug and takes a deep drink of his coffee. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep, steadying breaths. Something feels weird here, and he's probably just still on edge from what happened yesterday. He hates when his brother gets caught up in the demon shit. There's not much choice there, granted, but it puts him on edge. He hates the fact that one day, SPD will call him and tell him that his brother is dead in an alleyway. He hates the fact that he knows this with such certainty. And he hates knowing that there's something out there. That there's always something out there, something wrong, that he can't explain.

It's hard to tell sometimes whether or not what he's experiencing is him or that other thing. Castiel calls it ESP, but Gabriel hates putting a label to it. He hates calling it anything. Calling it something makes it real makes it a part of him like one of his arms or the anxiety disorder.

There's an oily sensation to the air here. It's more than just how this place reminds him of the breakdown; it's the color of things here. Muted and dull pastels, low florescent lights and daytime tv.

There's a knock on the door, and then a man in a suit steps into the room. He's got short, dark hair, beginning to thin at the temples. Wide, slightly bulging eyes. His suit is well tailored, dark with a red tie. He has a clipboard and pen in his hands and slightly expectant, giddy look on his face. There's something greasy to the guy- maybe it's the suit, maybe it's the used-car-salesman smile.

"Mr. Novak, I presume?" He says. He has an British accent, and it makes his voice husky and dark. "A pleasure to meet you- I'm Dr. Fergus Crowley, the director of this particular institution. We've not yet had the pleasure of meeting, as you were hired by my predecessor-"  
"Raphael left the game?" Gabriel asks, standing to shake his hand. "I had no idea- I figured he'd be here until the end of days."  
He has a firm handshake. "He transferred to an institution in Florida, I'm told. He grew quite ill of the winters here."

Gabriel frowns. He'd known Raphael for a long time, and humorless dick that he was, it had never occurred to Gabriel he might have seasonal affective disorder. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he says. "I was just going to go, actually, I have another appointment across town in an hour or so and traffic is going to be a bitch."

Dr. Crowley frowns, his face wrinkling ever so slightly downwards. "Please," he says, "let me at least tell you that I saw your work with the patient, Sam Winchester? On the surveillance screen."

Gabriel frowns. He knows that these offices are bugged and monitored- it only makes sense for both the patients and the therapists involved- but something about knowing that someone is watching and listening is unsettling and makes him feel wrong.

"Interesting file," Gabriel says. "Seems like a strange guy."  
"Please, do not misunderstand my intentions with watching your interaction," Dr. Crowley says. "You saw that you are the fifth therapist he's had? We were quite concerned he was going to become violent."

Gabriel frowns. "There was nothing in his file to indicate that he would be-"  
The doctor smiles, and his grin is knavish and unkind. "Of course there isn't," he says. Practically hisses. There's a mad little glint to his eye. It's nitrogen-burn cold, the kind of cold so intense it burns. "We've run into similar issues, with other files. There are some rather glaring omissions among the violent offend- patients. We should have an amended file to you by next week."

Gabriel nods, but there's something wrong here. Kid didn't seem violent; the kid seemed the furthest thing from violent.

"At any rate," Dr. Crowley says, "your work is impressive. Do keep it up."

And he smiles again, and slips out of the office, leaving that uncomfortable, greasy feeling in the air, leaving Gabriel standing there, feeling wrong.

* * *

It's too early, because Castiel went to bed and the sun is still down but here he is, awake in his bed, because his phone is ringing like it's full of three dozen incredibly irate bees.

He squints at the over-bright screen, trying to discern what it says, before he answers and murmurs, "What?"

"__C-C-Cas?__" Kevin stutters out on the other line.

Stuttering's back.

"What's up, Kevin?" Castiel asks.

"__P-p-police o-o-o-__," his voice cuts off. He inhales, he exhales. "__Police__," he repeats. "__Found me. Asked about y-yuh-yuh-you.__"

"Kevin," Castiel says, "Kevin, take a deep breath for me, okay? Don't rush."

There's a pause.

"__Outside the restaurant, he a-a-approached me__," he replies. There's another pause. "__He asked about you. He wants to t-talk to you. About what hhhappened.__" Another, longer pause. "__He's going to look for the guy, who got pppossessed.__"

"Fuck," Castiel sighs. "Shit. Thank you, Kevin."

"__His name__." Kevin swallows hard enough that Castiel hears it over the line. "__His n-name. It's W-Win. Winnnn. W-__"

"Breathe. I have time, Kevin."

_"___W-shit. Shit, Cas. The cops."__

Castiel grips the phone tight, and he suddenly, fervently wishes that he'd managed to fuck up that jackass cop back at the scene because it's one hundred percent that guy who made Kevin sound like this.

"Winchester. Fuck," Kevin blurts finally.

Winchester. All right. So Jackass has a name.

"Thank you, Kevin. You did good."

Kevin makes a noise, kind of low and strange.

"It's okay," Castiel says. "It's okay. I'll take care of it."

And he hangs up, and he gets out of bed, and he looks around his room.

It's going to be a long day, he can already tell.


End file.
